Twelve words, three lines, and the poem is over before the reader has settled in. That brevity is the first thing worth noticing, because a poem about wanting quiet could hardly afford to be loud or long. It says what it needs to and stops.
The opening line, "I wish for silence," is plain and almost shy. The speaker doesn't demand or plan or complain, but wishes. That verb belongs to birthday candles and shooting stars, to things we ask for precisely because we can't make them happen. So even before the second line arrives, the request carries a note of helplessness.
The second line, "In a noisy universe," is a fragment with no verb of its own. It hangs from the first line, yet the full stop after "silence" cuts it loose, so it lands as a flat statement of fact, almost a shrug. Look at the jump in scale, too. The poem begins with a single "I" and, one line later, sets that "I" against the whole "universe." The speaker doesn't blame a street, a classroom or a house, and the noise has no boundary. In physical terms, space is famously quiet, so the noise here must be figurative. Judging by the vagueness, it could be traffic, voices, screens, worry, or the constant pressure of other people's expectations. The poem never says, and that gap lets many different readers fill it with their own din.
The third line turns on a small act of word order. A natural sentence would run "I never find silence," but the poem writes "Silence I never find." Moving the object to the front means the word that opens the poem also opens its final line. Silence frames the poem on both sides, with the noisy universe wedged into the middle, so the thing the speaker longs for is literally surrounded. The line then ends on "find," a verb that searches and never arrives at anything. And "never" is an absolute. It describes a pattern rather than one bad afternoon.
There is no rhyme here, and none is needed. A chiming pair of line-endings would feel tidy and satisfied, the opposite of the mood. Instead the rhythm does the quiet work. The lines run five, seven and six syllables, which recalls the three-line shape of a haiku (5-7-5), though the last line is a syllable over. Whether or not that was planned, the effect is of a pattern that almost closes and doesn't. The middle line is the longest and the most sprawling, with "noisy universe" taking up half of it, as if the noise has swollen to fill the space. Then the poem shrinks back to the short, blunt monosyllables of "I never find."
The sounds carry a small irony too. "Wish," "silence," "noisy," "universe" and the repeated "silence" are thick with s-sounds, the same hiss we make when we say "shh." The poem seems to call for hush in the very sound of its words. Yet the word "silence" is itself a sound, and the poem can only describe quiet by making a little noise. Even the wish is spoken aloud.
Then there is the title, «Pointless». It is the only place where the speaker passes judgement, since the lines themselves only state a wish and a fact. Readers have to decide what exactly is pointless. It might be the wish, the search, or the noise itself. The single word supplies the emotional verdict the three lines withhold, and it makes the mood resigned rather than angry.
What gives such a tiny text its weight is that form and meaning agree. The white space around the three lines is the one thing the speaker cannot find, and the reader is quietly handed a few seconds of it. We learn nothing about where the speaker is or what causes the noise. With no setting or story to anchor it, the poem becomes a small container for anyone who has ever wanted the world to turn down its volume. It makes a large, tired feeling fit into a dozen words, and its last word, "find," leaves the search unfinished.